Jane held her hand up. “Say no more, Billingsly.” She turned toward the horse. “Lord Gifford. It seems fitting that you be relegated to your room all day, considering your behavior last night. Perhaps the confinement will provide the impetus you need to develop the ability to control your gift.”
Gift. G’s nostrils flared. There’s no controlling it, he thought. And call me G!
He spent the day pacing. He knew this situation was only temporary, and that he would not be trapped in this room forever, but for G, running across the countryside, tethered to nothing, was an essential part of his soul. He often wondered if that was how he got the curse in the first place. Something deep inside of him yearned to run, to break free of the disappointment his parents displayed toward him. Not only was he the second, and therefore unimportant son—the one without the esteemed nose—but as he grew up, he was always “wasting” his time reading poetry and plays. Rubbish, his father had called it. As a boy of thirteen, he’d skipped out on his fencing classes to read under a tree behind Durham House. When his father caught him and threatened severe punishment, G had run across the field, down the road leading away from London, and didn’t stop until he reached the edge of the dark forest.
G lived to run. And ran to live.
And now, after the humiliation of turning into a horse in front of his new bride, he was trapped in this room like a caged . . . beast was the word she’d used. A wife was simply a new person to disappoint.
And since this was supposedly the first day of his happily-ever-after, he could only conclude that marriage consisted of four solid walls, a door too small to squeeze through, and a window too high to jump from.
The lines of a poem formed in his head.
The stifling air, damp and dank for want of release,
The horse, too still and stuck, in need of a little grease,
To shimmy his frame through a door too small,
But even then, he’d be stuck in the hall . . .
Not his best work.
SEVEN
Edward
“Edward, dear,” Mistress Penne said from her chair beside his bed. “Eat your soup.”
She lifted the spoon to his lips, and he allowed her to feed him a few swallows, but then he turned his face away.
“Just two more bites,” she coaxed.
“I’m not hungry.” He would have liked to remind her that he was the king and not some little boy she could boss around, but getting all those words out seemed like a lot of effort. Instead he fell back against the pillows and pressed closer into the steady warmth of Pet’s body where she was stretched out beside him. The dog’s tail thumped against the blankets. She licked her lips and gave him a yearning look expressing that if he didn’t want to eat his food, she’d gladly undertake such a task for him.
He was too tired to give her any.
“Sire,” the nurse tried again. “You must eat if you are to regain your strength.”
He knew this was true, but it didn’t make it any less humiliating. He was mortified when he thought about last night. How, as he’d walked to the carriage after the wedding feast, his legs had abruptly given out underneath him and he’d tumbled to the muddy ground. How one of his stewards had lifted him easily in his arms like the king had no more substance than a woman, and carried him the rest of the way. How he’d also had to be carried up the stairs to his bedchamber, and how he’d spent every moment since then in bed. He’d slept for the entire night and most of the morning, but had awakened to a feeling of bone-deep exhaustion, as if he had not slept a wink. And now he was being spoon fed like a toddler.
He was dying, he finally admitted to himself.
He’d known this before, of course, but now the idea seemed real. His strength had abandoned him, and he doubted it would ever return. The coughing fits were coming more frequently, and there was a lingering pain in his joints and spine. Even his head felt diluted, as if his thoughts had to work their way through a bank of clouds to reach him.
He was dying.
Already. Hadn’t it been less than a week ago that Master Boubou had given him six months